Last Letter
by patagonia
Summary: The last letter Lily Potter wrote before her death was to her sister Petunia.


As obvious as I think it is, I do not own Harry Potter. Many thanks to my beta, Meucci Warlock over at FA.

* * *

** Last Letter **

Forgive me for dispensing with the common civilities. We have long since left those false little niceties behind us, haven't we? They do nothing but remind me of the great distance between us - that I have nothing to say you wish to hear.

Your silence is unnerving. You do not answer or otherwise acknowledge my letters, or my very existence, if the rumours are to be believed. I know you open these letters. As much as I have tried to limit any signs of my magical nature from your life, I simply cannot resist putting a little charm on these letters, assuring me that you aren't just pitching them in the dust bin.

I have come to view these letters as my own private confessional. Could I say anything? Would you keep my confidence? I believe you would. I believe the rumours are true. Had I any indiscretions or marital infidelities to confess, I most certainly would. As it is, I do not. My most heinous sin has been against you, as I'm sure you are aware.

And yet, you do not grant me absolution. Perhaps you have in your own little way. I do not know. I would like to think so, but I rather doubt it.

Have you ever confessed your sins to a priest? My concept of a confessional is probably overly romantic, as I have never had that experience, but in these last few days, I have wished for universal forgiveness for all that I have and have not done. I want someone to place her hand upon my head and tell me that I am forgiven, that I was only human, that few would have done any better than I.

These letters are the best I can do in the way of a confessional. I write my sins here and send them away. Send them away to you. They are gone from me and no longer mine. This is insanely selfish of me I know - to place my sins upon your head. You may not see them, but the sin is there, just barely under the surface. I regularly write letters detailing the inconsequential things in my life to one who never answers. Is that not something of the same thing? Can you not see how much I need an answer from you? Even if you tell me to fuck off and never contact you again? Call me a whore, call me a bitch, call me a cunt, call me a freak, call me inconsiderate, call me anything.

Call me your sister

This silence is nearly unbearable, but it is all I have come to expect. Your silence is my penance and I will bear it with as much dignity as I can. I will tell you that it has become more difficult in these last days. Is that your wish? To punish me? You may be assured of your success.

My sins, my regrets, my sorrows always circle back to you. I have done some things in these last years I am not proud of, but I do not regret my actions. I acted as I thought I must. I have acted against those who had to be stopped at any cost, sometimes with otherwise regrettable ramifications and with more violence and anger than I thought myself capable of. Some things just had to be done. If not by me, then by someone else. I have learned, perhaps too late in some instances that the ends occasionally justify the means. It does not torment me as I once thought it would.

But I regret you. I mourn for you. And if you cannot forgive me, then I suppose I do not deserve forgiveness. How callous of me, how incredibly self-involved that I beg your forgiveness, even if by all accounts, you believe yourself to be happy and healthy, when I have committed far weightier transgressions.

I imagine you reading these letters and I imagine your forgiveness. I imagine your laughter as I recount our childhood dramas. I imagine that you save my letters and occasionally reread them when you are in need of comfort. In darker moments, I have imagined you burning them or worse, laughing and scorning them, and in turn me, and the relationship we once shared.

I wonder what has happened to turn you into a woman completely unrecognisable to me. I am not so arrogant and narcissistic as to believe that your present circumstances and state of mind are due entirely to myself, but I cannot help but wonder if there is something I can do or say now that would turn you back into the person I know you are. I cannot repent past sins, only prevent future ones. I beg your forgiveness if you find this offensive, but can you honestly say that you are happy? That you have achieved your childhood dreams? I know you have not, as I remember sharing our childhood dreams. I have realised my impossible dream only to find that much of it is a nightmare sometimes interspersed by moments of pure joy, pure love and pure happiness. Such is the way of life I suppose. I offered to share my childhood dream with you. Do you remember? And you had said that you would think about it. Do you remember when all you and I had was each other and Mrs Montgomery and her cats down the street? You remember Mrs Montgomery of course, I wrote to you of her passing. Perhaps you are able to ignore such bonds, but I cannot.

You are no longer the most important person in my life, though you once were. That distinction now and forever will belong to my child, my children. I thank the Fates I only have one child at the time. I know you are aware of what is happening in my/our world - it will not surprise you when I tell you that our enemies make people choose between their children, their parents, siblings or friends. James and I had to discuss what we would do in that situation, as some people discuss where to direct their finances or where they would like to spend their anniversary. I think I hurt him when I said without hesitation and much louder than I had intended that I would always choose Harry over him. James of course agreed that he would choose Harry over me, but I think he wanted to discuss it, he wanted to talk about how difficult the decision would be. In my mind, there could be no difficulty in such a decision. I am sure you would not hesitate to choose your son over your husband. Could any mother choose any differently? Perhaps not our mother, but I believe she loved us, in her way.

I miss you. I miss what I thought you and I could have as adults. Perhaps I have simply had too much time on my hands to think in the last few days, but my memories are eating me alive. They prance around my head and rip apart everything I thought I was, everything I have worked to be, everything I thought I had effectively buried. The sins I thought I had forgiven of myself have resurrected themselves and are demanding atonement. Yesterday, I wept for the first time in months, perhaps years. Even though I am faced with daily reports of deaths and tortures of good, innocent people and seemingly insurmountable tasks against the truly evil, I have not wept over them – I couldn't, none of us could, it would have destroyed us. Rocking back and forth, my face ached from the tension of trying to keep it in. I was not successful. At keeping it in that is. I did not cry delicate tears - I must have looked quite the sight. My eyes are still puffy today. James thought he knew what was wrong - he held me and reassured me. But some things, a woman cannot share with her husband. With some things, she needs another woman, another mother, her sister. How can I tell him what I need when I am unable to articulate it? He does not understand my loyalty and my love for you. All he sees is your distaste of me.

I know you would understand. You may not offer what I need and you may turn your head in disgust or pity, but at least you would understand. You may pretend you don't, as I have often seen you do in the few times we have met as adults, but you would understand. You forget how well I know you. You forget that I grew up with you and watched your personality take shape, as you watched mine. You forget that I was your Little Lils and that we were more important to each other than to any one else. I thought you and I would never be apart, that we would forever look out for each other and protect each other. I never imagined we would be as we are.

I don't know exactly what happened. All I knew at the time was that everything did change. You were happy for me at first, I believe. Or maybe you hid you disappointment and disgust well. Do you remember my excitement? I had such silly naive notions of magic, but so many of us did then. What more can be expected of an eleven year old? I imagined that you and I would fly away from home on a magic carpet and have the kinds of adventures we had dreamt about in our many hours alone. In exchange for the protection you offered me from Mum's indifference and Dad's silence, I would bring magic into your life. I thought I could give you no greater gift, but such is the understanding of a stupid, self-centred child.

But you were not impressed by magic. It puzzled me then, but it became clear to me soon after, much sooner than I have ever admitted. Being a witch was the only thing I had ever been that impressed our parents. I was some kind of novelty and I brought notoriety to their small sad lives. It brought them closer to me and even further from you. I had realized what was happening, but I couldn't turn away their attention - the attention you and I had craved all our lives. I knew what I was doing, I performed for them. I did not relish being their little circus monkey, but I found I simply couldn't help myself. I deserted you. As such, I cannot blame you for deserting me, how ever much I may wish to.

What I am trying to do, in my clumsy little way, is ask for your forgiveness. I am so very sorry that I couldn't be there for you when you needed me, when you felt Vernon was the only person in the world who could possibly care for you. After living an adolescence with parents who didn't care, a sister who deserted you and a string of men and boys who hurt and used you, such a man as Vernon must have seemed a saviour. Did he promise to never leave you? To always love and protect you? Is that the price you had to pay for giving yourself up? Vernon is a good man, but we both know that he is not the man for you, he is not the man to bring out the best in you. You have hidden the best in yourself so deeply and securely, it would take a better person than Vernon or me to uncover it.

I miss you so very much Nia. I hope for all the best for you and if I prayed, which I have considered starting, I would pray for your happiness, security and joy. I will pray for you, my love. You deserve far more than you have ever allowed yourself, more than I have ever allowed you. I am quite reconciled to my fate, whatever that may be. My only true regret is you.

I must go. James, Harry and I must go into hiding for some time and it is time to perform the charm that will protect us. This will be my last letter for some time, but I will write again as soon as I am able.

Your ever-loving sister,

Lily


End file.
